PS 

3503 
1 555 



JPIRIT OF THE NORTH 
. , , , ^^^^ JtND OTHER POEMS 



By IVJtH BCtrjOH 




GopigktN°_Vil5. 



CfiPMRIGHT DEPOSm 




SPIRIT OF THE NORTH 

AND OTHER POEMS 



"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not man the less, but Nature more." 

— Byron. 



SPIRIT OF THE NORTH 

AND OTHER POEMS 



by 

Ivan Benson 



Illustrations By Ethel Jonhs 



PRIVATELY PUBLISHED 
1919 

MINNEAPOLIS 






Copyrighted 1919, 

By 

IVAN BENSON 



AUG ii Ibl9 
©C1.A530515 



TO THE NORTH WOODS 



CONTENTS 

Page 
Poems of the North Woods 

Spirit of the North (Illustrated) 13 

Deep in Some Sheltering Cove 14 

A North Woods' Pioneer (Illustrated) 16 

Speak Out, Thou Northern Pine! (Illustrated) 18 

The Legend of Kawishiwi (Illustrated) 20 

Pilgrims of the Night 21 

The Symphony of Life 22 

The End of the Trail 23 

Miscellaneous Poems 

To the Goddess, Hope 27 

Shackles of the Past 28 

When Comes the Unbidden Guest? 29 

These Modern Ladies 30 

De Suit Von't Schrink ! 31 

The Winning of Carmelita 32 

I Muse on the Wandering Gipsy (Illustrated) 35 



SPIRIT OF THE NORTH 

AND OTHER POEMS 



SPIRIT OF THE NORTH 



Out o'er the lake the lengthening shadows creep, 
The pine trees cease their murmur, and are still, 
The twittering swallows nestle down to sleep, 
The dying echoes winnow o'er the hill. 

A solitary loon wings up the bay, 
His mellow call resounds along the shore, 
O'er lake and pine he hurries on his way 
To find his mate, or search forevermore. 

Life of the North Woods, lulled to peaceful rest, 
The woodland fairies slumber in the glade, 
The forest bird has found his sheltered nest. 
Slowly and softly falls the northern shade. 

Farewell, thou mystic Spirit of the North ! 
Thou fair Enchantress of the woodland dell, 
My heart I leave with thee, and wander forth 
To live with memory only ! — Fare thee well ! 



13 



DEEP IN SOME SHELTERING COVE 



Sharp through the cedars and pines 

blows the storm-laden wind of the North Woods, 
Jagged and white rise the crests of the waves 

in the path of the storm-wind, 
High on the cliff from the tops of the pines 

through the howl of the tempest 
Screeches the storm-frightened hawk, loud and shrill 

screams the wind through the pine trees; 
Torrents and torrents of rain, driven down by 

the wind from the Northland, 
Lashing the waves of the lake to a mad-rushing 

vastness of fury. 
Riding my storm-tossed canoe, at the mercy 

of Nature's wild forces, 
Into a sheltering cove at the foot of the 

lake cliff I hurry. 
Safe from the sharp-driven rain and the sweep of 

the far-tossing tempest. 
Oft in the byways of life, when the storm-winds 

of doubt and misgiving 
Scatter down torrents of fear, and toss 

wildly the cold waves of sorrow. 
Far from the desolate crowd of disconsolate 

fears and distractions. 



14 



Deep in some sheltering cove I find 

comfort, and joy, and forgetting, 

Often in books I find comfort, and often 
in dreams there is gladness, 

But, in my sorrows, most often the 

smile of a friend brings me happiness. 



15 



A NORTH WOODS' PIONEER 



You scoff at old Dick staggering down the street. 

Booze-fighting bum, you call him, and you stop 

To laugh and joke when he goes staggering by. 

Old Dick's without a friend, now that he's broke. 

They got his money, and they threw him out. 

He was a good sport, 'til his stake ran short. 

And now a boozing lumberjack, you say. 

Not fit to mingle with the alley dogs ; 

Well, friends, maybe you're right, but stop a while. 

Don't push old Dick into the dirty street, 

He's made of good stuff, and that rugged form 

Should not be rolling in the gutter dirt, 

I'll help him up, friends, now you've pushed him down. 

I know old Dick, and I remember well 

That heavy winter forty years ago, 

When he left us at Sellwood and struck North, 

Straight through the unblazed forest, up the shore 

Of old Superior, a hundred miles. 

With blankets, rifle, and a pack of grub. 

Deep into the North Woods' pines he blazed the trail : 

And others followed, here they opened up 

Their lumber camps, and cut their logging roads, 

The sawmill came, and in two years this town 

Was big enough to finance ten saloons. 



16 



And now old Dick, the North Woods' pioneer, 

As good a man as ever swung an axe, 

A rough old lumberjack, and yet, my friends, 

A gentleman for every day he's lived. 

Old Dick works out the winter in the camps, 

And comes down in the spring to blow his stake, 

In three or four short days he's broke again, 

He's doped, and robbed, and thrown into the street, 

And in a week he's left tovv^n for the woods 

To earn the stake that brings so many pals. 

Well, friends, you see Dick only when he's broke, 

And whiskey-doped, and pushed and kicked around ; 

I know him as the pioneer lumberjack 

Who opened up this country years ago, 

He's fought these Northern blizzards forty years, 

Through cedar swamps, and over hills of pine, 

He's spread the timber line and cut the trails 

Deep through the forest depths, he's played the game. 

Come Dick, old boy, you're tired, and you're cold, 

I'll call you pal, and let the blizzards howl. 



SPEAK OUT, THOU NORTHERN PINE! 



Climb up, thou great and mighty pine! 

Thou king of North Woods' frigid dime, 

Proclaim to God and man the song 

Of all the northern spirit throng, 

Of bird, and beast, and ice, and snow. 

Of frozen lake and timid doe, 

How regal moose protects his fame 

By guarding close his haughty reign; 

And how the wolf creeps from his lair 

To skulk for deer, his morning fare 

Comes not from worthy effort made. 

But from the pillage, and the raid. 

Ah, could'st thou speak, thou ancient pine ! 

To tell us of the things divine, 

Which Nature teaches in her forms, 

The misery of selfish storms 

Of greedy passion, of the strife 

Of jealousy in this short life. 

Beneath thy boughs, oh lofty pine! 

Within the limits of thy time, 

Unfolds the drama of the soul, 

Love, hatred, jealousy, the whole 

Of man's great problems, firmly played 

F'v Nature's actors, unafraid 



18 



Of quacking- dictates, and the rules 
Of mock convention's petted fools. 

Speak out, thou pine, and teach to me 
The Promise of Eternity! 



19 



THE LEGEND OF KAWISHIWI 



As I stood on the cliff by the lone tamarack, 
Overlooking Kawishiwi Falls, 
I thought of the legend, an Indian tale 
From the land where the timber-wolf calls. 

How a young Indian buck from the Camp of the Loon, 
Having scattered his boast far and wide. 
Called together the Indians from Bass wood to Birch, 
To see Blackstone's impossible ride. 

In his birch-bark canoe, down Kawishiwi's fall, 
The Great Spirit defying, he rode. 
But the Master of Waters, with fingers of wrath, 
Clutching firmly, drew down his new load. 

How the Indians worship this King of the North. 
This great wilderness spirit of yore, 
How the swirl of the waters, the far-scattered spray, 
Are the makers of legend and lore. 



20 



PILGRIMS OF THE NIGHT 



In the night time, softly stealing, 

Through the pine groves in the North WoodS; 

Through the cedars in the valley, 

Softly sighs the gentle night wind; 

From the darkness of the forest. 

From the black and sombre pine trees. 

Comes the hooting of the gray-owl, 

Slowly, calmly, from the tree-tops, 

Woo, to-woo, the owl is calling; 

In the valley swoops the night-hawk, 

Swiftly flying o'er the moorland, 

Now the startled wood-bat flutters. 

Through the jack-pine and the cedar. 

In the dark and quiet North Woods, 

When the forest shades have deepened, 

And the pines have ceased their groaning. 

Come these messengers of darkness, 

Pilgrims of the night, slow flying. 

Through the pines and o'er the moorlands, 

Telling of the North Wind's dying, 

Of the woodland creatures sleeping, 

Of the quiet lakes and rivers, 

And the silent forest places. 

In the night time come the pilgrims, 

Come the pilgrims of the darkness, 

Gloomy wanderers of the pine woods, 

Sombre messengers of sadness. 



21 



THE SYMPHONY OF LIFE 



What is this mighty symphony of years, 
Which plays, unbound, with happiness and tears? 
The days of man are checkered with the whole 
Of life's emotions, and the tempered soul 
Caters to whims and fancies, from the dark 
Unfathomed depths of sorrow to the bark 
Which rides lighthearted on a peaceful sea. 
And feels that all in life is harmony. 
The life of man is but a counterpart 
Of Nature's teachings in her varied art; 
The carping crow destroys the sparrow's nest, 
The peaceful robin sings of hope, and rest; 
Out of his lair the prowling brush-wolf creeps, 
O'er dancing shrubs the carefree rabbit leaps ; 
The raiding hawk swoops down upon his prey, 
The timid duck flies lightly o'er the bay; 
From crash, and cry, and roar, and shrieking call. 
To peaceful silence when the shadows fall. 
Thus Nature ends in gentle mood at last. 
With final blending of a fitful past. 
And so man's life is filled with various forms 
Of passion, love, and hate, and troubled storms ; 
And yet, life is an eternal symphony. 
Which ends in faith, and love, and harmony; 
If all the world were perfect in man's eyes. 
What would there be to find in Paradise? 



22 



THE END OF THE TRAIL 



Ah Winton ! far-removed from time and change ! 

Thou fair deserted village of the pines, 

For years thy paths had led me over strange 

And narrow highways, in the cold confines 

Of progress, while the peace-disturbing signs 

Of industry defiled the pine-clad hill. 

But now, again, thy life is peaceful, vines 

And windfalls gather in the grove and fill 

The logging road, owls hoot in the abandoned mill. 

Gone is the lumberman's unsparing axe, 
The forest trail, moss-covered, feels no more 
The iron heel of northern lumberjacks, 
No steaming tugboat creeps along the shore 
Of hidden forest lake, a wealthy store 
Of mystery surrounds this ancient town 
Among the guardian pines, the untold lore 
Of ages is the North Woods' mystic crown. 
Winton ! deserted village, rich with old renown. 



23 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



TO THE GODDESS, HOPE 



Hope, beloved Goddess of the Soul ! 
Unfold the secrets of my guarded fate, 
Swing wide the portals of that hidden gate, 
And let me read, unfettered, from the scroll. 

Thru nights of doubt, prolonged in silent strife, 
Your sacred presence leads me safely on. 
Until, at last, with coming of the dawn, 
Appear, again, the Promises of Life. 



Milleniums of gratitude to thee. 
Thou beacon-sister of Eternity! 



27 



SHACKLES OF THE PAST 



What mocking voice has called on man to wear 

The rust-infected shackles of the past? 

What stolid fate ordains that he shall bear 

The ever-increasing burden to the last? 

Oh liberty, thou queen of fancy's flight ! 

Shut out the time-worn paths of yesterday, 

Let bygone troubles pass into the night, 

Let new adventure take its chosen way. 

The gods have not decreed a fettered life. 

Man's burdens are too often self-imposed, 

The dust of ages, tracked with lowly strife, 

Rests in the desert, with no wind opposed. 

I exult to lose the oft restraining fears. 

To be the guest of Fortune's crowded years. 



28 



WHEN COMES THE UNBIDDEN GUEST? 



Today the sea is silent, o'er the sand 

The quiet surf is rolling up the beach, 

No threatening storm-cloud shades the ocean reach. 

The drowsy sea gull sleeps upon the strand. 

But come when raging winds sweep from the land, 

Out o'er the jagged ocean, while the screech 

Of far-tossed sea gulls echoes to beseech 

A respite from the storm that gods command. 

Today my life is filled with peaceful rest. 

No doubts or longings steal my hopes away, 

And yet I know not when the unbidden guest 

Shall visit me, nor how long he will stay, 

With fears and sorrows, lingering to infest 

My life with visions of the darker day. 



29 



THESE MODERN LADIES! 



Oh ! take me back to happy days of yore ! 
When women Hved whom knights did fain adore ; 
These modern ladies, prone to shout their fame, 
Live but to boast, and what in heaven's name 
Have they to brag about? The anxious world 
Sees womanly charm into oblivion hurled; 
From her own choice she treads the fickle path, 
And seeks to rouse the world to fiery wrath ; 
These modern ladies, proudly self-adorned, 
Shall come to grief as other fools have mourned; 
The boasting haughtiness, self-satisfied, 
Shall die as many a shallow wind has died. 
And why, we pray, should woman claim renown, 
And vainly strive to wear the regal crown? 
She bids us look to history, and see 
How woman's deeds approach eternity; 
And yet, the fame of women of the past 
Lives not through deeds alone, but it shall last 
Because, in olden times, the woman gave 
Her humble efforts modestly, no slave 
To vanity, or empty fashion's rule, 
A thing of beauty, bred in virtue's school. 
Oh, fate, bring back one breath of olden days, 
When women lived for virtue, not for praise ! 



30 



DE SUIT VON'T SCHRINK! 



De suit von't schrink! It's all inside silk-lined, 

You couldn't find anodder of its kind 

In any dry-goods store on Union Street. 

Oh, my! How nice it fits you, from de feet 

Up to de head, and take a look behind ! 

Just like it vas for you alone designed ! 

A better fit you surely couldn't find ; 

And first-class, high-grade vool, it can't be beat. 

De suit von't schrink! 
Oh absolute! A man who's even blind 
Could tell it von't a little vetness mind, 
But since it looks like rain, and I'm no cheat, 
I'll find two sizes larger. Have a seat! 
To please my patrons, det's how I'm inclined. 

De suit von't schrink! 



31 



THE WINNING OF CARMELITA: 
A Ballad of the South Sea Isles. 

O'Brien was pacing the white-pebbled beach, 
'Way down on a South Sea Isle, 
His brow was full-covered with ponderous thought, 
But his lips held the bud of a smile. 

"These cannibal heathens can bicker their fill, 

Their big chief, Hagrado, can laugh. 

When I show them who's strong with the chief's dancing girl, 

I'll be drinkin' my share of the quaff." 

Then out on the sand strode the cannibal chief, 
With two dozen blacks at his side, 
"Bring forth Carmelita, and on with the dance, 
She's the rosiest flower of the tribe!" 

Out whirled Carmelita, the chief's black face beamed, 
The maiden was clever, and fair. 
She kicked up the sand with her pretty brown toes, 
And tossed forth her raven-hued hair. 

O'Brien came forward, he bowed to the chief, 
"Hagrado, my master and lord, 
What deed can I do that will help me to win 
Carmelita, my love, my adored?" 



32 



"You love her, O'Brien, I know that full well, 
And she favors you too, I can see, 
You must prove to Hagrado your worth to the tribe, 
If the one lucky man you would be." 

'' Tis now seven years since your quick Irish wit 

Kept you out of the kettle, alone, 

While your friends filled the stew pans of all our great tribe, 

And none of them ever reached home." 

''And now that you crave Carmelita for wife, 
There is one way of winning the girl : 
Sail out on the main, to the rival chief's isle, 
In quest of the Cartoline Pearl!" 

The salt sea was stormy, a sharp tempest raved, 
When O'Brien set sail on the main ; 
Three-score swarthy black-men he had for a crew, 
He cursed their black skins without shame. 

Three long weeks have passed, Carmelita, alone, 
Looks hopefully out from the sand. 
And sees the white sail of O'Brien's lone ship 
Swelling out, toward Hagrado's land. 



33 



O'Brien leaps out from the billowing surf, 

Bows low on the sand to his chief, 

"We've killed oft* your rival, we've shattered the tribe, 

I place the great Pearl at your feet !" 

"Come forth, Carmelita, the hero, returned, 

Brings tidings of valorous strife; 

You've won her, O'Brien, may the fair South Sea Isles 

Bless you both with generous life." 



34 



MUSE ON THE WANDERING GIPSY 



Life is too filled with care and things that seem, 

Our narrow selves pace down the accustomed path, 

What others did before, we do today, 

Year after year we follow on with hope 

Becoming weaker, and the day appears 

When even dreams shall cease, the imprisoned soul 

Shall serve convention and the lesser creed. 

I muse on the wandering gipsy and his free 

Unfettered life, he follows nothing but 

Here, perhaps, at turning of the road, 

A bunch of flowers, the gipsy patteran, 

Left there by friends to tell him where they go. 

I think of the roving Arab, and I dream 

Of leaving care behind me, to go forth 

Like the unbound Arab, when he folds his tent 

And silently steals away into the night. 

So would I live, away from custom's bounds, 

The right of wandering freedom as my creed, 

With one guide, only, over life's free path, 

A single bunch of flowers, emblem of hope, 

God's patteran to guide me on my way. 



35 



i&aiS' 



